


litany in which certain things are crossed out

by dykeula



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Attempted Sexual Assault, Community: ohsam, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s07e15 Repo Man, Gen, Hallucination Lucifer (Supernatural) | Hallucifer, Hurt Sam Winchester, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 07, Stockholm Syndrome, Trauma, Trauma From Lucifer's Cage (Supernatural), Triggers, loosely rewritten, me? putting my own specific ptsd symptoms in this fic? it's likely, sexual harrassment of a minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 17:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21140717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dykeula/pseuds/dykeula
Summary: It’s not like Sam can’t handle a little hallucinations - he knows he can. Can handle so, so much worse, stretch his pain tolerance from here all the way to egypt without it stopping anytime soon. His pain threshold is a well you could drop a dime into without it ever hitting the ground. He taught him that.[...]It’s not his fault his brain is the way it is. Not his fault 180 years of hell far outweigh 30 something years on earth. Simple mathematics.





	litany in which certain things are crossed out

**Author's Note:**

> IDK I just really wanted to write some mentally ill S7 Sam and put in some of my own problems in there. Casual rewrite of 7x15 and S7 but I mean - that whole storyline sucked major ass and was an insult to every mentally ill fan, so can you really blame me for drawing outside of the manual?  
Please beware that this has flashbacks of the attempted sexual assault/harrassment of a minor (and some more fucked up Lucifer hallucinations.)  
Also, can we please at this point just acknowledge that it's canon that Sam got raped in the cage? Just as a fandom and show? Yeah? Cool.  
This was just supposed to be a cathartic one shot. A lot of this is taken from my own experiences (although I did not get thrown into the cage with two angry arch angels - gosh darn it >:()

It’s not like Sam can’t handle a little hallucinations - he knows he can. Can handle so, so much worse, stretch his pain tolerance from here all the way to egypt without it stopping anytime soon. His pain threshold is a well you could drop a dime into without it ever hitting the ground. He taught him that.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit. An artist’s only half as good as his subject.”

Sam can’t tell where the voice is coming from, whether it’s in his head (mostly) or located somewhere in the outer world. But he’d recognize that voice anywhere. Full on body hallucinations are easier than this floating unwanted commentary on his day to day life. He wishes it would stop.

“Liar liar, pants on fire,” comes the reply, right next to his ear, but when he jerks away and looks towards the passenger seat, there’s nothing there. Sam blinks, twice, then again for good measure. No change.

There’s a cough next to him and it’s only because he actually turns towards the sound does he realize that that’s Dean and not another hallucination. (“You sure about that?”)

“You okay in there?” Dean’s eyes are fixed on the road, but Sam knows, he _ knows _ that there’s pity in those green eyes. The knuckles he has clenched around the steering wheel are impossibly white. Probably expects Sam to snap any moment. (“Are you?” _ “No” _ “Suit yourself”)

Dean wants him to reply - but with what? Yes? No? I don’t know? What are the rules here on earth? For a second he almost has half the mindset to tell the truth, just blurt it out and go “No, I’m hallucinating cuz apparently I’m so fucked up that I miss the _ devil _’s voice” but where would that lead them? 

“Awww, Sammy, you sweet talker. Who knew you had a fable for the romantics.”

He swallows, tries to get his breathing under control. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

The devil’s laughter is loud in Sam’s ear, engulfing him.

\--

Sometimes he’ll experience something doctors would probably call body hallucinations - he just calls it cold. He’ll wake up from a nightmare to be dropped right back into the one he calls his life. His limbs will be so cold that they feel glued together, immobile. No touch except for the acute feeling of someone touching him, stroking slim fingers along his rib cage as if in a silent request to be let in. Tap tap. The touch should feel comforting, should feel warm, but it doesn’t. It’s just more ice.

No auditory hallucinations with those side effects, which honestly is worse. At least auditory stimuli can distract him. As it is it just feels like he’s back, like his body is back, never truly left. He has no scars for those decades, but it feels like he does. During those days, he’ll drop everything, hop into the shower and turn the warm water up so high his skin will start peeling off along with the touch.

Sometimes his body will remember other memories, too. Memories of when he was soulless. Of hands on hips and the heavy feel of something metallic in his sticky hand. Or something soft.

After those, Sam welcomes the Lucifer hallucination back with open arms. He missed him.

\--

They’re in a café somewhere - somewhere on earth. Dean blabbers on and on about what day it is, how they could take the day off to do something special, “just the two of us”. That part’s amusing to Sam, because as if it were that easy to put his mental health problems in a stroller and leave them at home with a nanny.

Sam just looks at him blankly. “Why would we do that?” he asks, bewildered. Lucifer is next to him and obnoxiously clacking his nails on the wooden table. He looks intrigued. That’s never a good look.

Dean looks at him, really looks, stares right down into his soul. Doesn’t find what he was looking for. “It’s the second of may, Sam.”

He doesn’t get why the emphasis on the date should help him any more than Dean’s knowing looks. “So?” Is it a holiday? Did they use to celebrate holidays? He doesn’t remember. “Oh…” he says, trying to sound like he knows what the fuck he’s going on about, but Dean can see right through him probably. Clean through.

“Your birthday,” Lucifer gracefully (hah) supplies. Second of may … 1985? ‘86? Lucifer’s voice feels like a gentle breeze next to his ear. (He can’t look at him, not now, not with Dean here. Act normal, Sam.) “You forgot your birthday, darling.”

“Oh,” Sam exhales and deflates. Things were so much easier when Lucifer would tell him what day it was. He doesn’t know what to say, so he just says “Sorry”.

According to Dean that was the wrong thing to say, because right after that he takes the opportunity to cuss under his breath and storm out, leaving Sam with his cold cup of coffee and a gentle, reassuring squeeze of his hand. “It’s okay, Sammy boy,” Lucifer soothes, voice cold as ice and yet filled with love. Sam shudders. “I’ll remember it for you next time. I’ll remember it all. What else am I here for?”

Sam doesn’t answer, doesn’t dare reply, but he hears himself thinking _ ‘To torture me? To remind me of what I’ve lost?’ _ Either of those two answers are good.

His constant companion just smiles at him.

\--

They don’t celebrate his birthday that year. Sam’s not too angry about it.

\--

He tries apologizing to Dean afterwards, but he won’t even listen to him. Just clenches his fists so hard Sam thinks he must be resisting the urge to punch something, punch him. Steer the car to the side and make them crush into a tree at full speed. 

To mend his first mistake he decides to steal John’s journal from Dean’s duffel bag. At least that’s what he thinks it is he stole, because truth be told it could also just be anyone’s diary, really. The heavy, worn leather feels like nothing in his hands, like something he should remember but doesn’t. So he reads. Goes far back, as far back as he can, and absorbs everything like a sponge. It’s a lot of knowledge to keep track of but thankfully he has - he has someone else to carry it for him. Remind him.

He finds out that his dad didn’t really like him very much. He can relate. Sam doesn’t like Sam very much, either. There’s a tiny part of his brain wondering _ (No) _ if John even was his dad _ (Stop it, Lucifer) _.

The next time Dean and him have time to themselves while on a busy hunt with werewolves is when Sam finally has the opportunity to use it to his advantage. They’re walking around a forest, deep and dark and comforting. Every noise his boots crunching leaves creates reminds him that this is real, it’s not a hallucination.

“Pfff,” Lucifer scoffs, casually leaning on a wet tree branch. “As if I couldn’t hire set designers.” Sam ignores him, makes more noise despite the fact that he knows they’re currently hunting something very, very dangerous. “_ I’m _ the most dangerous being in this forest, Sammy.”

“Hey Dean,” Sam whispers, trying to downplay his hammering anxious heartbeat. He can’t fuck this up. “You remember that summer dad made us hunt a werewolf? And you tripped and broke your ankle?” He’s smiling at him, always smiling, not too much so as to not seem too off. He wants this to work so badly.

Dean perks up. Hook, line and sinker. “You mean when _ you _ broke your ankle, bitch?” he grumbles, kicking dirt off the ground and looking at him with those big expectant eyes.

His ankle, right. His. Damn it, how could he have mixed that up?!

“Happens to the best of us,” Satan reassures him.

Sam quickly looks towards him, just for a second, before he fixes his eyes back on his brother. “Right, heh,” he says nervously. Dean’s eyes are still full of expectations, as if he’s still missing something monumental. His mind goes into panic mode.

Werewolf…. summer… broken ankle… Dad…? Did something happen with dad? Which puzzle piece was missing, which one _ damn it! _

“Jerk,” Lucifer supplies, so close now, right next to his ear. His pointed tongue almost touches Sam’s ear lobe and Sam shudders involuntarily. He doesn’t need to divert his gaze to know that Lucifer’s grinning. “_ Jerk _.” (God, he hates this. Hates his mind.)

“... Jerk.” 

Dean laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard in his life. A little too loud. Draws the attention of the werewolf straight towards them.

That’s alright, though. If there’s one thing Sam didn’t forget it’s his fight reflexes.

\--

It’s not his fault his brain is the way it is. Not his fault 180 years of hell far outweigh 30 something years on earth. Simple mathematics.

“Your brain has the worst case of swiss cheese I’ve ever seen. Hey, maybe you have alzheimer’s!” Lucifer’s eyes are glinting with mischief. “Serves you right with that receding hairline of yours. Shame. You used to be my greatest worshipper. Now look at you.”

Sam wants to tell him to fuck off but he’s not allowed in this flashback/hallucination (he should really try to keep the symptoms separate) with Lucifer’s fist shoved down his throat. It strangely doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as he thinks it should, his mouth stretched so wide it’s started tearing flesh. Or is this a dream? Is he dreaming?

He should really try to keep track.

\--

It was a dream, after all. Dreams tend to neither be a memory nor real. Generally.

Thank fuck.

\--

“Sorry, what was your name again, Officer…?” He knows the names. Or rather, his hallucination alter ego does. But he can’t let him get the upper hand.

“Sut_ ton _,” Lucifer sighs, clearly offended. Sam ignores him.

The detective does the job for him, though, way too friendly even now. “Oh, no worries. Sutton.”

Lucifer does an obnoxious _ ‘aha’ _ sound, indicating a ‘i told you so’ incoming. Sam glares at him. “Don’t you trust me anymore, Sam? You used to trust me with _ everything _,” Lucifer pouts.

Sam shudders. _ (not lucifer that’s not lucifer it’s just a figment of your imagination) _Tries to concentrate on the crime, on this innocent woman slaughtered. The sight of it all, the gore and blood and sulfur, makes something rise up in his subconscious, something he’d really rather forget. Like a flashback. He swallows it back down like a bad dinner.

\--

The journal helps in more ways than he can count. It’s always good to have an unbiased outside opinion to help him with what is real and what’s not. And it’s not like he could ask Dean, who would just either yell or blame himself. He doesn’t know a lot of things for certain these days, but he does know that Dean doesn’t more on his plate. Not now, not ever. Sam’s already a burden enough as it is.

“Awww, ever so selfless,” Lucifer coos. They’re in a library surveilling the librarian, or at least that’s what he thinks they’re doing. He’s pretty sure Lucifer doesn’t care enough to construct an entire fake scenario in his mind just to fuck with him. At least… not this Lucifer. This not!Lucifer. The other one would, absolutely.

“I heard that,” comes the reply right next to him and Sam startles so hard he almost jumps out of his seat. The seat next to him is empty, he knows this, wouldn’t have sat down here if it wasn’t, and yet. There he is. Just casually lounging, regarding Sam in amusement. It’s not Lucifer, not the real one, he’s known this since the very beginning, but that look still makes him sweat. “I’m as real as you want me to be, baby. And even if I’m not the real deal, that means I’m just a separated part of your personality and honestly, isn’t that worse? That your most self loathing thoughts and horrific traits would combine to something like” he dramatically gestures towards his sitting form, “little ol’ me?”

Sam goes back to reading. He’s quite far back already, had started from the end to the beginning. He’s just reached his 12th birthday.

_ You don’t know me _.

“Don’t I?” The tone in Lucifer’s voice grows dangerous. Sam knows that voice too well not to pick up on its nuances. There’s a big neon sign in his head currently going off spelling out ‘DANGER’ in giant red angry letters. He shivers. “I know parts of you you’re not willing to admit to yourself, even now. There’s not a crevice or scar, no mole, that I don’t know. I might just be the only one in the whole wide world that knows and I’m -- heh, well, _ you _. Part of you.”

There’s hands grabbing his shoulders - why are there hands grabbing his shoulders? Sam wants to stand up but Lucifer, or rather himself, keeps him seated. “Uh-uh, champ. I wanna show you somethin’. Just how well I know you.”

“Stop,” Sam whisper-yells, still aware of the others around them, pointedly not making eye contact with the lunatic talking to himself. Sam wishes he could ignore himself.

Lucifer just laughs. “Sam, you know that word gets me hot and bothered like no other.” Sam’s mind starts racing, panicking, but before he can truly lose it, he- “But that’s not why I’m doing this. Later. For now shhh, just watch and enjoy the show.”

Sam doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand what he’s meant to be watching. The other people? The librarian? Books?? What’s the lesson here, what’s the rules? Sam needs to know the rules of the game at all times, otherwise how’s he supposed to prepare for the blow?

Not knowing is the scariest feeling in the whole entire world.

It doesn’t take long for him to get it because the next person walking into the library is - is himself. Younger, smaller, but just as bulky. Shaggy head of hair that looks greasy even all the way over here. From the eyebags under his eyes, he’d say this Sam is maybe what? 15 years old? About right.

Flashback, then. Memory. Alright. You can do this, Sam. Can’t be half as bad as triggering hell memories, can it? You’ve been through this once before. A part of him, small part, just whispers “just you wait.”

It doesn’t repulse him nearly as much as it should that he looks at this boy, the Sam Winchester from before, and doesn’t recognize himself in any of it. There’s a disconnect, like one part of his mind is telling him _ ‘this is you’ _ and the other part is saying _ ‘this will never be you, never again’. _The whole thing’s giving him whiplash.

Young Sam yawns, clearly exhausted from one hunt or the other, or maybe homework. He honestly doesn’t know anymore. The Sam from before has by now started sitting down and unpacking the enormous brick collections he calls books. Sam can almost smell of all those old, worn out books from over here.

“You look ravishing, Sam,” Lucifer whispers in his ear, just as the scene shifts and through the haze he can make out another person entering the scene. This one, for some reason, he recognizes immediately. Mr. Williams, his sophomore year in high school. Was it somewhere in California? Maybe. How come he knows all these facts but not his own birthday.

“Sam?” Mr Williams asks, clearly confused to see him this late. “What are you doing still in school? Shouldn’t you be home by now?” He’s so close now that Sam can smell his perfume and the scent gives him whiplash. Like cinnamon. He remembers this, feels like he’s both the Sam from then and himself now. There, but also not. Object and observer.

Can feel his heart racing, his hands going cold and clammy. Why is his heart racing?

“What’s going on” his older version asks just as younger Sammy looks up from in between his eyelashes at the much, much older man in front of him and coyly replies “Just thought I’d get more reading in, Mister Williams.”

Lucifer behind him (or next to him? He can’t tell.) laughs. “You little devil, you. Always were a teacher’s pet, weren’t you? Had the hots for the teacher, didn’t you?”

Sam blinks, again and again. “No, I…” Another part of him wants to argue _ ‘it was just a crush’ _ and _ ‘I was a kid’ _ at the same time. Another wants to yell that the Sam from back then would have done anything, absolutely anything, to not have to go home to the minefield that was his father.

“Shhh, don’t talk during the movies,” Lucifer shushes him, pulling out popcorn from somewhere. When did he get popcorn? Especially ones with a red glaze? “This is when it gets juicy.”

There’s a hand on his own, a much bigger one, but for once it’s not Lucifer. No, it feels different. Sam looks down at his hand and back again to come face to face with the teacher he admired for months and then - stopped. He can’t remember why. (“Liar,” Lucifer hisses in his ear.) He can _ feel _the nerves now, isn’t sure if he wants this dude to either kiss him or compliment him. A therapist would say he’s starved for a healthy parental figure.

“Sam,” Mr Williams says, brown hair hanging in his face, “You can call me Matt when we’re not in class, you know. We’re the only ones here.” He smiles at him, but to adult Sam it looks more like a grimace than a genuine smile. This man is standing too close.

Lucifer snickers. “Tell him how _ good _he is. Sammy loves that.”

“Matt,” younger Sam says, swallowing, testing out the name like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever heard. Thinks to himself _ ‘Matt & Sam. Sam & Matt.’ _Doesn’t even know himself whether he means that romantically or in a parental sense.

“I’ve seen you in class, by the way. You’re quite … sharp. Bright. I do hope you know that, Samuel.” The next words he says sounds like a mix of Lucifer and him, him and Azazel, him and Ruby: “I hope you know how special you are.”

The Sam from now, he, he remembers this. He really wishes he didn’t. The english teacher from when he was 15, and still so naive. Thought that the only monsters in the world were the ones him and his dad were hunting. The Sam then who let a grown man talk to him like this, touch him inappropriately.

But he knows how this ends: Mr Williams had tried kissing him, pushed a strand of hair behind his ear and leaned in, and the view of a much larger man descending on him like that made Sam freeze up and grow cold. Panicked, he didn’t think, just acted out of pure fear and made it just in time for his teacher’s lips to graze the left corner of his lip before he’d punched him in between his ribs, hard. Heard the crack of ribs before bolting the fuck out of there. Mr Williams, _ Matt _, probably hadn’t thought he would react so fast, lying there and clutching his stomach.

He remembered the aftermath, too: Him running home, pleading with John to let them move on from this fucked up town, to just pick another hunt. John’s “There are people dying, son, we can’t just bail because you don’t like the weather”, loud as a whip and final. (He’d read that journal entry, what did John call him again? Entitled? Couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized it then.) Dean tried talking to him, of course he did, but he just blamed it on not liking the town overall. Didn’t breathe a word to anyone, even now, just went to pick up his books the next day and avoided that teacher like the plague for the next few weeks he was there. Matt - Mr. Williams - tried talking to him a few times, probably to blackmail him into staying silent, but just as soon realized that he needn’t bother. Sam then and Sam now wouldn’t talk to anyone about this. Who else was there? Certainly not Dean, he’d freak and probably kill the teacher. John… Sam wasn’t sure if John would believe him or not. Didn’t matter. He would rather just keep his head low and wait for the inevitable: for the hunt to be over so they could go as far away from there as possible.

Dean and John’d blamed his antsiness back then on puberty. The truth was a little more complicated than that.

“Oh, Sam,” Lucifer was cooing from behind him. “What a noble, tragic little sob story. But that’s not quite the truth, is it, Sammy?”

_ What? _ “What?”

“Stop lying to yourself.”

_ I’m not - Am I? _

The scene in front of them went on then. Just a little differently than he remembered. Because now when Mr. Williams starts tucking a strand of hair behind younger Sam’s ears and cupping his cheek, the Sam then starts leaning into the touch and sighing.

Sam’s reaction is so violent he almost falls off the chair if it wasn’t for the supernatural presence keeping him there. His entire body is repulsed by what he says, what he thinks he- no. No.

“No. That’s not what happened!” he yells, desperately.

“Uhuh, right,” Lucifer smacks his lips together obnoxiously. “Like I would just make up this elaborate little smut fest because what? Because I felt like it? Flashbacks can’t be _ wrong _, remember? ‘S what you said, cowboy.”

_That’s exactly what you’d do, you piece of shit._ _It’s what He’d do. _He can’t believe he’s insulting himself. 

“_ Really _ special,” the Matt in the flashback ( _ not _ a flashback, this isn’t a memory, this isn’t real, this is) whispers just as the Sam now starts repeating “No, no, no no” over and over. Adult Sam can almost _ feel _that husky breath on his face. The hand cupping his cheek. He wants to run. Wants to hide.

“Let me go,” Sam pleads, just as the younger version of himself starts gingerly kissing the digits of that hand. “_ Please _.”

“Why?” Lucifer asks, all innocent. His hand feels like Matt’s, only way, way colder. Sam feels violated from every side. “You haven’t learned your lesson yet. Maybe it’s not your memory, but it’s still all you, buddy. Your imagination. And whether this is real or not, the song remains the same.”

He starts leaning in closer towards his ears, just as 14 year old Sam makes to kneel down on the ground. The older Sam whimpers and screws his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to, need to, see anymore. He just wants this to end. (A different time. Lucifer telling him “This ends when you can’t handle it anymore. You know where to aim, cowboy.”)

He can still hear Lucifer’s next words, though, vibrating around his skull and catching the fabric of his mind on fire: “You were always dying to worship _ someone _, weren’t you?”

The next time he opens his eyes he’s back in the library, the real one now, no longer in school. People are looking at him all weirdly, as if they haven’t seen a crying hyperventilating man freaking out in a library before. Getting fucking _ triggered _by libraries.

He’s clenched his fists so hard together they’ve drawn blood. Sam can just about see a staff member wanting to check up on him when he makes a run for it. Doesn’t know where, just hopes he finds an exit somewhere in this fucking hellscape. A small part of him hopes that maybe if he gets the hell out of dodge fast enough he can outrun whatever the hell just happened there.

He doesn’t even leave the premise before he throws up his entire breakfast as well as yesterday’s dinner.

\--

Dean won’t pick up his phone. Sam just might or might not have remembered one of his earliest most traumatic memory (and that’s saying a lot) and Dean’s not answering his phone. The lead with the librarian is a dead end. Sam is starting to lose it just a little bit.

“Big bro’s probably dead by now.”

“Shut _ up _.”

\--

Lucifer and him, they - they find Dean. He doesn’t know how, or why Lucifer is suddenly being so helpful, but they do find a lead. Multiple. (“Come on, give me a little more credit than that! I don’t want you to be all sad, all the time. I want you to be _ happy _, Sam. Remember?”)

Jeffrey. It’s Jeffrey. He killed those women. Sliced someone’s ear off. Kidnapped Dean.

Sam’s fingers are itching for his gun, he _ needs _to kill something right about now. Lucifer looks at him sideways while they make their way towards the warehouse, Nora with them, really looks at him and smiles. “There’s daddy’s little abomination,” he whistles. “All ready to go to prom.”

Sam can barely hear him, he’s so full of barely contained anxiety and rage.

\--

“I loved it - Loved _ him _,” Jeffrey says to the tied up and bloody Dean. Sam can’t really make out their surroundings well, and it’s making him nervous.

“You know what that feels like, can’t ya, Sammy?” Lucifer snickers, making Sam glare at him. He can’t exactly deny it, not to himself. “Takes one to know one. Maybe you guys should start group therapy or something.”

_ Shut. The fuck. Up. _

Lucifer just holds his hands up in surrender as answer.

\--

No sleep. That’s what he said. No sleep for you, Sammy, uh-uh. Not tonight, not ever.

Sam’s not sure how, or why, but somehow after that library incident everything has just started going downhill faster than usual. He’s by now so tired that his eyelids feel like they’re glued together. Like there’s gum stuck under his shoe. He just needs to sleep.

“Please,” he whispers into the silent room. Dean is already truly knocked out. Doesn’t really expect anyone to answer.

There’s a hand slowly stroking his hair back. The simple gentle touch feels sinful. “Ohh, keep sweet talking me. But nope. Now that we’ve got that iffy memory” (_ not a memory, you lied) _“Whatever - now that we’ve got that out of the way, there’s just so much more emotional minefields we could explore. I just want you to work through your trauma, don’t you understand? And who best to play head shrink than well, yourself?”

Sam’s eyelids are so, so heavy. He doesn’t have it in him to shrug him off or make a witty remark. He just wants to sleep. 

_ Please _.

The hand in his hair is growing harder, starts pushing his head back violently, exposing his neck. Nothing’s staring back at him except the ceiling of the hotel room, but the movement has ripped his eyes back open.

As a last resort, Sam starts fumbling for his left palm, for the ugly red scar there. He pushes down on it as hard as he can, tearing open the flesh once again. The pain is satisfying, but doesn’t have the desired effect.

“No rest for the wicked, Sammy.” Lucifer just laughs at him and lets go of his head to grab his wrist. Licks his palm clean of any fresh blood.

Funny. Sam can almost feel it.

**Author's Note:**

> If you were interested, a fun thing about complex PTSD aquired when you were younger can be that your brain's memory function is fucked beyond relief and with most of your childhood you will have to play the fun game of "Did this actually happen? Was someone else there to witness it? Or did my brain just misremember?" It can also be "Why do I remember *THIS* unimportant detail but not my own family?" Sam might not have gotten it in childhood, but I think a whooping 180 years of torture surpasses the normal PTSD label (yes, PTSD and Complex PTSD are different things). What happens is that basically the long term/short term memory functions of your brain are fucked, mashing a whole lot of things together (like say, traumatic memories from your childhood and traumatic memories from the cage).  
Another thing SPN forgot is that Hallucinations are often coping mechanisms for a traumatic/stress situation that your brain made for you - doesn't often feel like it, though.  
So no, that wasn't really what happened, but *Sam* can't be 100% sure about it, and that's the fun stuff :)


End file.
